Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. "I'm sorry," she said. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam.
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